


Watson a Name?

by TravelingMagpie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, happiness and fluff nothing but the fluff, this fic was a fun one to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:05:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingMagpie/pseuds/TravelingMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John really gets geared up to yell at Sherlock, only to realize that you can't really chew someone out until you know their middle name. Naturally. But Sherlock is remarkably closed-mouthed about it...which only drives John to do some investigating of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

It had been something of a trying day at 221b Baker Street.

John Watson woke at six in the morning—a full hour before his alarm went off—to the sounds of glass breaking in the kitchen. Used to his flat-mate’s strange behavior, he rolled over in an attempt to ignore the noise, but the smell of something burning seeped into his room and pulled him fully out of dreamland. Mumbling groggy curses, John staggered out of bed and down the hall, pulling his robe over his pajamas.

“Sherlock?” he called. “What in the world—”

He stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, staring in dismay at the jumbled mess strewn across every flat surface.

Sherlock Holmes, still fully dressed and obviously sleep-deprived, was crouching on the floor with his cheek pressed to the tiles, squinting at what appeared to be a glass-encrusted ham, which lay under the table in a puddle of its own juice and the remains of several wine glasses.

“Morning, John,” he said cheerfully. “I just discovered how Gerald Lowell got away with the murder of his stepmother two years ago.”

John’s mouth opened, and closed again. He narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips into a flat line. “What is burning?” he asked, carefully separating each word.

“What? Oh.” Sherlock stood, and flicked the burner off on the stove. “Forgot about the…that.” He waved vaguely at some unidentifiable mass blackening in a skillet. “Open the window.”

That was the last straw. John took in a deep breath through his nose, opened his mouth, and began to shout, “Sherlock—”

Then he stopped.

“Wait,” he said.

Sherlock, ready to ignore John’s impending rant, was surprised into paying attention. “What?”

“What’s your middle name?”

Sherlock blinked, and it was as if a concrete wall slammed into place behind his eyes. To John’s surprise, he found himself completely unable to read his flatmate’s expression. Since coming to live in 221b, John had learned how to decipher the detective’s tiny changes in expression and could usually pick up on Sherlock’s thought process as well as anyone less brilliant than the detective. He was used to a certain impassivity in his friend’s features, of course. Sherlock _did_ pride himself on his ability to control his emotions and keep his face deadpan in all situations.

This, though…this was something on a new level entirely.

John, taken aback, cocked his head. “It’s a simple question, Sherlock—no need to give me a death glare.”

“Why do you want to know?” Sherlock’s voice was deadly quiet.

Feeling more and more uncertain, John shrugged. “You can’t properly shout at someone until you know their middle name,” he explained. “I always knew when my mum was _really_ mad at me because she would shout, ‘John Hamish Watson’ loud enough for the neighbors to hear.”

“I’ll clean up the ham.”

John blinked. “Great—but that doesn’t answer my question.”

“No, it doesn’t. And I won’t.”

“You aren’t going to tell me your middle name?”

“No, John. I’m not. And I would greatly appreciate it if you never brought the matter up again. Good? Great. Now. I’ll just clean up this ham and we’ll go down to the Yard and talk to Lestrade, mm? Good.”

And with that, Sherlock proceeded to ignore John right out of the kitchen. The ex-soldier stumped back up the stairs to his bedroom to get dressed, his curiosity royally aroused. With names like Sherlock and Mycroft, he knew that the Holmes family didn’t exactly go for “normal” monikers, but Sherlock’s reaction seemed rather extreme. It took a lot to really bother the lanky detective—John should know, he’d poked at the limits enough. Irritating Sherlock was easy, but actually getting under that tough, everyone-else-is-beneath-my-notice skin was harder.

Which meant that whatever middle name the Holmes parents had given Sherlock had to be something spectacular. John knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t be budging on the matter—he was determined to keep it secret.

And John was just as determined to find it out.


	2. Molly

Two days later, he was still barely speaking to Sherlock, but had followed his flatmate to Bart’s for the afternoon in hopes of seeing Molly Hooper. He haunted the staff break room for nearly an hour, while Sherlock mucked around with chemicals and such in the lab. His patience was finally rewarded when Molly came in bearing two empty coffee mugs and a sheepish smile.

“Did he take the bait, then?” John asked her, glancing pointedly at the mugs.

“What?” She blushed and dropped the mugs into the sink with a clang

He had mercy on her. “Never mind.” Gesturing at the spindly metal table, he said, “…Mind if we…?”

“Oh, right.” She dropped into a metal folding chair and folded her hands atop the table. “Do you…need something?”

“Yeah.” He pulled out the chair across from her and sat, leaning forward. “But first, you have to _promise_ not to breathe a word of this to Sherlock.”

“Is it a…surprise, or something?” she half-smiled, like she wasn’t sure how to take this turn of events.

“No…not really.” John grimaced. “I need to know…that is, do you know…Sherlock’s middle name?”

She stared at him.

In silence.

For a very long moment.

“His…middle name.” It didn’t sound like a question, but it was one.

John sighed. “It’s a long story.”

She offered an uncertain smile. “I can imagine.”

John felt as though the tables had been turned—now _he_ was the one on the edge of red-faced embarrassment. “Right—never mind,” he said, trying to backtrack. “It’s a stupid question—”

“I’m…not honestly sure he _has_ a middle name,” Molly interrupted.

“He does.” He relaxed a little, glad she didn’t ask any questions. How was he supposed to rationally explain that he wanted to know his flatmate’s middle name so that he could scold him properly the next time he left unmentionable objects in the drain or on the couch or decided to play dissonant music at one in the morning? “He practically took my head off when I asked.”

“If he has one, I don’t know it,” she shrugged.

“And there are no…records or anything here that would have it?”

He knew that crossed a line, and the look of reproof she gave him both relieved and chastised him.

“If there were, I couldn’t show you,” she chided.

He sighed, and gave her a small grin, just to show that he was joking. Mostly. “I know,” he said. “Stupid privacy laws. It’s nearly impossible to get decent blackmail these days.”

She giggled at that. “You might ask Detective Inspector Lestrade,” she suggested. “Seems like a bit of blackmail he might have.”

 _Now there’s an idea._ “Thanks,” John said. He stood, and motioned to the coffee maker. “Eh…may I?”

She waved permission. “He might be a while.”

 _He_ being Sherlock.

“Did he happen to mention how long?”

She shrugged. “He’s taken over the entire lab and won’t let anyone else in.”

“So…hours, then.” John knew the pattern. When Sherlock got on a trail, he cordoned off the lab as if it were his own private estate and didn’t emerge until he had results.

Molly sighed. “Better make me a cup too.”


	3. Lestrade

“If we hurry, we can still catch him. Come on, John.”

Sherlock started to stride from the room, a dramatic billow of dark coat, dark hair, high cheekbones…John shook his head.

“Actually, I think I’ll stay here,” he said.

Sherlock stopped as if he had run into an invisible wall. Back he stalked, to tower over John and glare down at him. “Why?”

John, refusing to be intimidated, shrugged. “I’ll catch a ride with Greg. We haven’t talked in a while, and you’ll be fine on your own.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, obviously attempting to fathom John’s thought process and find out what was _really_ going on…John kept his face innocent and bland. He nodded toward the door. “You’d better hurry,” he said. “Don’t worry—we’ll catch up.”

With a final squint, Sherlock gave a curt nod, swirled toward the door and called back over his shoulder, “Bank of England. Two hours.”

And he was gone.

Lestrade shook his head. “I’ll never understand how he does that,” he muttered.

John shrugged, turning to face the DI. “I doubt any of us will,” he replied. “Do you mind…?” he gestured at the seat across from the desk.

“Not at all—I’ve finished the paperwork for tonight. Until Sherlock turns up again, anyway.” He grimaced.

John chuckled. “I wouldn’t want your job for anything.”

“And I wouldn’t want yours,” Lestrade said. “All I do is damage control. I don’t know how you haven’t killed him yet.”

“Came close the other morning. Which reminds me…” John sat forward, propping his arms on his knees. “I have a question for you.”

“I wondered why you didn’t go with him.” Lestrade leaned his chair back, resting his feet on the edge of his desk, and uncapped a bottle of water. “What’s the question?”

John wasn’t going to beat around the bush this time. “I need to know Sherlock’s middle name.”

Taking a thoughtful swig of the water, Lestrade examined John in curious scrutiny. “His…middle name.”

“You know, that’s exactly what Molly said?” John rubbed his nose. “Why is it such a shocking question?”

“Well, probably because we don’t think of Sherlock Holmes as being human enough to _have_ a middle name,” Lestrade answered. “And because it’s such a weird question to hear from _you_.”

John sighed. “Just…do you know it? Is there paperwork somewhere?”

“Sherlock?” Lestrade laughed. “Official paperwork on _Sherlock_?” he shook his head. “John, I don’t think you realize—he’s not officially…official. _Technically_ , I could lose my job if the powers that be found out how often I call him in.”

“So…”

“So no, I have no idea what his middle name might be.” Lestrade cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “Why did you say you want to know?”

John spread his hands in a vague gesture. “It’s a…long story.”

The detective inspector looked at his watch, sat back, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“We’ve got time.”


	4. Mycroft

John really hated last resorts. There was a reason they were last on the list—they weren’t pleasant to contemplate. But he had committed himself to this course of action, and he couldn’t back out now. He raised his hand to knock.

And the door opened, John’s upraised fist stopping just short of Mycroft Holmes’ nose.

“Er…sorry,” John stuttered, stepping back.

“Not at all,” Mycroft frowned. He also stepped backwards, into his office. “I was just going to lunch, but I’ve got a few minutes. Did you need something?”

He really hated last resorts. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I have a question. Can I come in?”

The government man gestured him inside, the crease of concern never fading from his brow. Closing the door, he turned around and asked, “What is it, John? I hope my brother hasn’t done anything that—”

“No, no, nothing like that. I just…I have a question.”

“Alright,” Mycroft gave a little wave of permission. “Go ahead.”

John took a deep breath, clasping his hands behind him in classic military “at-ease” position. “Weird as this may sound,” he said, mustering his courage past the awkwardness, “I really need to know…Sherlock’s middle name.”

Mycroft stared at him, and John took a tiny bit of pleasure from the feeling that, for once, he had taken the elder Holmes completely by surprise.

“His…middle name.”

“Yes, his middle name, the second name on his birth certificate, what his mother called him when he was really in trouble, his middle name—why is that so amazing to everyone?” John’s voice rose in exasperation, and he took a deep breath. “Listen, sorry, I…dunno. Never mind. Forget it.”

“No, no…” Mycroft held up a hand. “My apologies. You simply took me by surprise. I cannot recall the last time someone asked me such an…unusual question.”

“And considering your job, that’s saying something.” John shrugged, spreading his hands. “It’s a long story—”

“And one that, I assure you, I have no desire to hear.” Mycroft Holmes stepped behind his desk and sank into the chair there, steepling his fingers in the same manner Sherlock did when he was thinking and staring at John over the long fingertips. “Have you asked him?”

“Sherlock? Of course I did.” John leaned back in the chair with a shrug. “He wouldn’t tell me.”

“Then what makes you think I will?”

Suddenly tired of all the games, John shot Mycroft the sort of deadly look he hadn’t dared use since the first night he met the man in a damp warehouse. “Because if you don’t,” he said, enunciating every words clearly, “You can say goodbye to our little meetings.” He would never get into one of the elder Holmes’ fancy cars again.

Mycroft gazed at him, considering. Wondering, probably, if the occasional checkup-by-proxy was worth it.

“Very well,” he said at last. “But if Sherlock comes to me, asking who told you, I will deny all accusations. And I have a feeling I’m a much better liar than you are, Dr. Watson.”

Not sure if that was an insult or not, John simply nodded. “Agreed,” he replied. “What is it?”

Grabbing a sticky note from his desk, Mycroft scribbled something across the yellow square and pushed it toward John.

John picked it up. Looked at it. Read the word—the name—written there. Looked back at Mycroft. Back at the note. Read it again.

And stood.

“I see,” he said. He cocked his head. “Your…parents,” he said, “Were they…?”

“Insane?” Mycroft shrugged. “Who knows.”

“Right.” John glanced at the note in his hand again, and shook his head. “Right.”

And with that, he left, dropping the note in the garbage as he passed.

And to think that he had always hated “Hamish”.


	5. Sherlock

John paid the cabbie and pushed the cab door shut, giving a short wave in response to the man’s _Have a great day_. The sun was already hidden behind the buildings, and that odd sort of halfway-but-not-quite twilight, gray instead of lavender, had fallen over 221 Baker Street. He hopped up the stairs, through the door, and took the steps up to his flat two at a time.

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, violin tucked under his elbow, head tilted back as he stared at the ceiling. The only thing that moved as John came in were his eyes, squinting at him and—John was certain—taking in every telling detail.

“You smell like Mycroft’s office,” Sherlock said blandly.

“Sorry.” John shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the couch as he went into the kitchen to start getting out the tea things.

“Did he call you in again?”

“You make it sound like a trip to the headmaster.” John turned on the tap to fill the kettle and glanced in at his friend.

Sherlock smirked with a little grunt of amusement. “It is, rather. Except he calls _you_ in when _I_ get in trouble. What did I do this time?”

“Nothing, nothing.” _Kettle filled, set to boil, dig around to find a clean teacup_. John ran his finger over the edge of one. _Well…mostly clean will do_. “It was just a, ah…a friendly chat.”

Sherlock sat upright. “Mycroft doesn’t do friendly chats.” He narrowed his eyes. “John.”

John wouldn’t look at him. _Nearly out of sugar._ Sniff _. Milk’s still good._

“John.”

“Mm?”

“John.”

Finally giving in, John turned and met Sherlock’s gaze. “I had a question to ask him, that’s all.”

He could almost read the deductions as they flew behind those icy eyes. _Asking Mycroft a question. Didn’t ask me first. Or did he? Something Mycroft would know. Something he wanted to find out recently…something I wouldn’t or couldn’t tell him. Nothing I_ couldn’t _answer. Must have been wouldn’t. What wouldn’t I tell—oh._

The eyes widened, and Sherlock sat back, the violin _twanging_ mutedly. John winced, feeling rather ridiculous. He turned his attention back to the tea, banging the sugar dish on the counter with perhaps a bit more force than necessary.

“Did he tell you?”

“You’re so sure you know what I asked him.”

“Of course I am,” Sherlock sounded insulted. “I always know.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Nothing ever takes you by surprise.”

“Not at all.”

John _hmphed_. There was no arguing with the man. He gave up, still looking down at the tea as he carefully—and slowly—poured himself a cup. “Yes, he told me.”

Silence filled the small flat.

Embarrassed, but determined not to show it, John fetched down another cup— _oh, look, there’s a clean one after all_ —and filled it, adding some milk. He carried it into the sitting room and held it out to Sherlock, who took it wordlessly and sipped.

John sighed, shrugged, and took a drink of his own tea.

“I won’t ever use it,” he promised—albeit a bit reluctantly. You couldn’t properly shout at someone without their middle name. But…in the name of friendship, sacrifices had to sometimes be made.

The tiniest flash of relief crossed Sherlock’s face, so quickly gone that John only caught it because he had been watching. “That’s good.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sherlock held up his teacup as if giving a toast. “The promise is nice too.”

John rolled his eyes. “You’re hopeless,” he muttered, sinking into his chair and snatching up the newspaper. Setting aside his tea, he flicked open the paper and started to read, fully prepared to ignore his flatmate for the rest of the night.

“I’ll make you a bargain,” Sherlock said suddenly.

John peered over the top of the paper. “Mm? What?”

“I’ll make you a bargain. In return for never using my middle name, I’ll tell you Mycroft’s.”

A series of particularly enjoyable and amusing scenarios flashed through John’s mind, and he lowered the newspaper. “I’m listening.”

Sherlock smiled and sipped his tea. “Norman.”

John stared at him.

“What?”

“Norman. Mycroft’s middle name is Norman. Mycroft _Norman_ Holmes.”

“What sort of parent gives their eldest a normal middle name like that and gives their second child a…a…” John struggled for the right descriptor.

“A monstrosity of a chimerical moniker like mine?” Sherlock shrugged. “You haven’t met my mother.”

“No, and I don’t particularly want to.” John cocked his head. “His middle name is really Norman.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not lying to me.”

Sherlock blinked slowly. “No.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not. Why would I lie about something like that?”

“To get back at me by making me look like a fool in front of your brother.”

Sherlock smirked. “That would be ridiculous and childish.”

“Yeah, it would be.” John pressed his lips together in annoyance, unsure if his friend was telling the truth or not. “I could ask him, you know.”

“Really?” Sherlock raised a sardonic brow, and stood, setting his teacup on the small table beside his chair. Taking his violin under his chin, he scooped up the bow from the mantle and began to play—a loud, jaunty tune that _almost_ sounded like laughter.

John growled something uncomplimentary under his breath, rolled his eyes, and went back to his paper. They both know perfectly well that he would never ask Mycroft.

_Honestly. Norman?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, this was written during the Great Hiatus and before the "William Sherlock Scott Holmes" reveal of season three. I actually originally played with the idea of using that name, as it's from a "biography" on Sherlock Holmes written decades ago, but I was afraid of possibly contradicting future canon. I shouldn't have worried! But at any rate, this was a blast of a fic to write, and if I did perhaps end up with something that's a little AU. The reviews were also fun to watch coming in, as everyone had a guess as to what horrible name I would come up with -- that's actually the biggest reason I left it up to the reader's imagination. Absolutely nothing I could come up with would be as horrible as whatever the reader thinks. :) Thanks for reading!


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